


In Distant Lands

by Anonymous



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arabian Nights AU, Bilbo as a traveling merchant, M/M, Pre-Slash, Snippet, and Thorin as an exiled nomad, who needs a storyteller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins has traveled far south to trade Hobbiton wares for silks and fruits. During his stay in a little oasis town, he has also grown a reputation as an excellent storyteller - and is rather surprised when this leads to him getting abducted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Distant Lands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Non6ix](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Non6ix).



> Happy Birthday dear Non6ix. I remember you saying you'd like to see this AU and I admire your art for it. So I hope you enjoy this snippet, and maybe somebody else wants to add to it, too!

The horizon blurs in the afternoon heat, and a gust of hot, dry wind whirls up a cloud of sand. Bilbo surveys the slowly-emptying market place – most traders left before noon – and tugs the scarf around his face a little higher. He’s not really made for this climate – his nose has been red practically since he left his home far north, but at least the stone buildings with their colorful tiles of this oasis town are mercifully cool.

He has very few wares left – Hobbiton’s produce he sold within the first three days after his arrival, for twice the price he expected. Then again, in this dry, arid air, the green fruits and plants that grow aplenty in his home are a rarity. In turn, he has purchased numerous rolls of silk and linen, and local fruit and tableware to take back home.

Where he’s not expected before spring and Bilbo has been here for barely more than two fortnights.

“Sidi, sidi!” Somebody calls cheerfully and Bilbo glances down to see two children weave through the crowds from the public well. “Sidi, will you tell us another story? Please!”

Bilbo chuckles. While a stranger from the first moment he came here, his stories have earned both interest and friendship.

“Maybe later,” he replies. “Let me tidy up first.”

* * *

The sun has set, but the heat lingers as Bilbo finally makes the way back to the small home he rents. Judging by the stars overhead and the empty streets he’s stayed too long again – but children and adults enjoy his stories, and Bilbo likes telling them.

So with a small chuckle he continues on, through a labyrinth of once unfamiliar streets. He doesn’t hear the footsteps following him. Doesn’t notice the movement in the shadows.

Bilbo has almost reached his home, when a whispered “…is him” drifts to his ears and he looks up. Only to have his world thrown into darkness as a rough burlap sack is shoved over his head, and his struggling hands and feet are caught. A hand presses against his mouth over the rough fabric, another wraps coarse rope around his hand and feet –

And within moments Bilbo Baggins is whisked away in utter silence and darkness.

* * *

Bilbo awakens to a soft breeze caressing his face. The air carries heat and the smell of spicy tobacco, and even against his closed eyelids he feels the light.

He overslept.

Bilbo jerks upright, blinks, and realizes he’s somewhere completely unknown. A wave of dizziness slams into him, the memories rush back – they held something against his face, some strange smell – and then nothing.

Bilbo swallows down the rising anxiety and turns to study his surroundings. He’s inside a tent, the canvas an airy, blue fabric trimmed with gold. The sheets he lies on are pure silk, richly decorated, and likely the most comfortable bedding he slept on since he left his home. Next to it sits a flat ceramic bowl holding fruits, and Bilbo’s mouth waters. He rubs at his bruised wrists – the ropes are gone, but they left marks – and contemplates his options.

It could be poisoned.

But he’s thirsty; the dry desert air has a habit of making him so. Bilbo reaches for the grapes, and then sees the large water pitcher sitting on the floor, and before he knows it, he has emptied half of it.

Only when he sets down the pitcher he catches the tent flap closing from the corner of his vision – catches a short glimpse of sand under a cloudless sky, and then a person steps forward to block it.

“You seem thirsty,” the stranger announces cheerfully, his voice muffled by layers of fabric wrapped around his head. Nomad, Bilbo thinks – they sometimes came to the market, and made the oasis folks uneasy. Rumor calls them wild, uncivilized and battle-hungry, though when he first made the trip south, Bilbo learned that the nomads are essential to life in the desert.

“There’s more water if you want it,” the stranger continues. “Let me know if you feel unwell. Oin said you’d likely feel a bit sore, but Nori said the stuff was safe. Sorry, ‘bout the bruises, by the way.”

Bilbo eyes the stranger warily. The eyes behind the fabric sparkle with good humor, he’s not carrying a weapon and his body language seems open.

Still, he was abducted.

“Why am I here?” Bilbo asks instead.

The stranger tilts his head. “Our leader will tell you that. If you’re up to it, I was sent to bring you to him.”

* * *

The sun nearly blinds him when he leaves the tent. Bilbo stumbles momentarily, as the scorching heat envelopes him, but the stranger catches him gently by the arm. By the time Bilbo regains his bearings they’re half-way across the small camp.

About eight small tents, all looking light and airy, made of bright colors. Camels doze in the shade of a ninth canvas, but nothing else stirs in dead air.

Bilbo thinks he can feel his skin burnings by the time they enter another tent – the largest – and he can’t stop himself from sighing in relief to be out of the sun. The stranger leading him laughs. “Not from around here, are you?”

“No,” Bilbo huffs, and falls silent as he studies their surroundings. This tent seems to have two parts at least – this looks like an antechamber with two empty chairs sitting next to another tent flap.

“Thorin,” the stranger calls, “I have our guest.”

Bilbo snorts. He’s no guest, even if they’ve undone his bonds. The desert surrounding them makes for a much better prison anyway.

“Bring him in,” a deep, sonorous voice replies, and an unbidden shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine.

“Alright,” the stranger says and nudges Bilbo forward and through the last flap.

Behind the flap the air is thick with the scent of myrrh and mint, the light dim. Golden trinkets shine within the light of oil lamps, and silken cushions decorate the divans and chairs. Finely carved lamps hang from the ceilings, thick carpet cover the ground, and Bilbo finds himself impressed against his will. This tent almost puts the palaces of the oasis town to shame.

“Thank you, Bofur,” the man with the deep voice says, and Bilbo notices the desk in the corner. A figure raises from behind it- this must be Thorin – and he is large, broad, and in his face Bilbo finds the brightest eyes he has ever seen.

Bilbo doesn’t even notice Bofur depart, as Thorin approaches him.

Up close, he is taller still, and Bilbo has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. He crosses his arms before his chest decisively, and refuses to step backward.

Thorin looks Bilbo up and down. Bilbo grows rather self-conscious of his simple linen shirt and overcoat – practical in the heat, but not very fancy. Thorin is clothed in fine, dark silks, and silver-bordered linen, and has jewelry woven into his long, dark hair.

Thorin raises one eyebrow skeptically. “So you are the storyteller?”

Bilbo blinks in utter surprise. “Excuse me?”

“The storyteller,” Thorin repeats, visibly unimpressed. “There were rumors of a stranger telling the most compelling stories in this town.”

“And that is why you abducted me?” Bilbo asks, his voice coming out a pitch too-high. Really, he thinks, what are these people? He expected some misunderstanding regarding a ransom, or some shady political plot, but who kidnaps a storyteller?

Thorin doesn’t seem quite so amused. “You weren’t inclined to accept an invitation.”

“You didn’t –“ Bilbo begins, but has to stop. About three days ago, two young men had come to his market stand and asked if he would come and tell his stories for them. Bilbo had declined once he had learned their families lived far away.

“That’s why you abducted me?” he asks again, incredulity growing.

Thorin huffs. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but we had no choice,” he forces out reluctantly, and Bilbo can only shake his head.

“But why?” he bursts out. Are good storytellers truly so rare in supply in these parts?

Thorin’s face shutters, and Bilbo instantly sobers. “Sit,” Thorin tells him and gestures toward the cushions and divans sitting in a corner.

Bilbo gulps down his fear and sits without protest. Thorin watches him closely, then shuts his eyes, sighs, and sits down as well. When he looks at Bilbo again, there is a degree of wistfulness to his expression.

“Peace,” he says quietly, “I did not mean to scare you, and if you will not help, we will return you to your village. I swear this on my honor.”

Bilbo nods. Still, he doesn’t know how far to trust a man that had him abducted here.

“Help yourself to food or drink, this tale may take a while,” Thorin begins and leans back. “Far away to the east, there is a kingdom named Erebor. I don’t know if you heard of it.”

“The lonely Mountain,” Bilbo offers.

“Yes, it has been called that. A tall mountain that rises over the plains, visible from afar. The mountain has always been rich in treasure.” Thorin shakes his head.

“It fell,” Bilbo says, recalling fragmented rumors he caught on the road. “Some sort of invasion, I believe? The royal family and most citizens were evicted.”

Thorin nods, his face dark now and his fingers clench around the silk of his tunic. “Many died then. More died on the road.”

Bilbo swallows drily. He does not understand what the fall of Erebor has to do with his own abduction, but he will hold his silence while Thorin looks so grim.

“Some settled in the cities to the east. Others became nomads.”

“You are from Erebor!” Bilbo realizes abruptly. Thorin may share the coloring with the nomads that visit the markets, but his entire build is different.

“Indeed,” Thorin confirms. “I was but a young prince when Smaug came.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. “You –“ His mind starts spinning. This is the legendary prince – he’d heard stories, rumors, but had never thought them real. Now, it turns out there was more truth to them, and Bilbo is sitting just opposite one of those impossible legends.

“Do you know who Smaug is?” Thorin inquires.

Bilbo swallows. “I heard he was called the dragon. But that is impossible…”

“I don’t know what his true form is,” Thorin responds, “but he can turn himself into a dragon. Our guards never stood a chance.”

Impossible, Bilbo thinks. Utterly impossible, but looking at Thorin’s face he knows the other is not lying either. His heart skips a beat, and the silence lingers and seeps into Bilbo’s bones. He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable, and it seems to jolt Thorin from his dark memories.

“He has one weakness,” Thorin says and his impossibly blue eyes come to rest on Bilbo and they take Bilbo’s breath away.

“Stories.”

“What?” Bilbo breathes.

“Stories,” Thorin repeats. “Smaug loves a good tale beyond it all. They say he rewards every storyteller beyond their wildest dreams if he is satisfied with their tales. They say that once he begins to listen, he forgets the world around him.”

The world around Bilbo begins to spin faster. “That’s why you need a storyteller.“

Thorin nods. “I will take back my home. For my kin, for my people, for all the ones that died when Smaug came. For them I will reclaim Erebor and drive out Smaug, and I will do it with or without your help.”

Bilbo gulps. Studies the gem-studded bowls and cups on the low table to steady himself, before returning his gaze to Thorin’s. “It would be easier with my help.”

A small smile forms on the corners of Thorin’s mouth, and it utterly transforms his face. Bilbo finds himself transfixed as he watches the harsh lines change into something soft and gentle, and his heart clenches for Thorin.

“I would like to hear one of your stories first,” Thorin says, “Rumor also says Smaug has a tendency to gobble up the storytellers that displease him. And I’d rather not send anybody to their doom.”

Indeed, Bilbo thinks, and the world is blurry and he feels faint and this is madness. Why does he want to prove himself to Thorin, why is his heart urging him to do his best? He should tell the worst tale and walk away from this; he should return to the safety of the oasis town and travel back north in spring. Erebor is half a world away, lies on the other end of the desert, and the road alone may just kill him.

There is nothing in the east for him.

But the faint shimmer of hope lurking in Thorin’s eyes. The hint of gentleness hidden underneath so much pain and hardship, and something in Bilbo’s heart has been touched by his words.

“Very well,” Bilbo hears himself say, and his mind already dances through the tales he’s known, weaves together pictures and phrases into colorful flowers that become a spell. A magic to draw in an unwary listener, and already Thorin leans forward, and Bilbo’s heart sings in response.

“In a hole in the ground there –“

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Being the wonderful person she is, non6ix [sketched a scene from this](http://non6ix.tumblr.com/post/138155032379/very-well-bilbo-hears-himself-say-and-his-mind). It's amazing, so please take a look!


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